


No One Warm to Hold

by dridri93



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Minor Character Death, Multi, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dridri93/pseuds/dridri93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’d realized that Lisa was pregnant, Dean pulled out of hunting completely, intent on keeping his newfound child safe. Nine years later, catastrophe struck and he found himself headed back to Singer Salvage, the only roots he had left, with a black-winged, trenchcoat-donning hallucination in the passenger seat. When he reached Bobby’s, he jumped into his new job head-first. His first client seemed remarkably familiar…he could’ve sworn that he’d seen this Castiel’s eyes somewhere before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Warm to Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful artist, [uke-sama-sensei](http://uke-sama-sensei.livejournal.com/) for her amazing art!
> 
> Art masterpost can be found [HERE](http://uke-sama-sensei.livejournal.com/3407.html)!
> 
> Also want to give my eternal gratitude to my amazing beta [RemyMcKwakker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RemyMcKwakker/pseuds/RemyMcKwakker)! (Love ya, Naila!!)

It all started with a thump on the top of the Impala. Dean hadn’t exactly been sleeping all that well for the last couple of days, tossing and turning in the empty space beside him, and his days were spent aimlessly driving around the state of Indiana – who knew there were so many tourist traps ensconced in such a relatively small state? – so he just shrugged off the noise as a trick of the mind. At least, he did until a head with the bluest eyes ever to blue and black hair that ruffled in the wind, haloed by the late afternoon sun, popped into his field of view. From on top of his car.

Through the sudden acceleration of his heart and the rushing of the wind, he barely heard, “Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to talk about…”

Then he squawked “Holy hell. Jesus Christ!”

The man on his roof tilted his head and stated, “No. Would you like to speak about the death of…” A semi blew by Dean and the wind gusts drowned out whatever this stupidly insane man was trying to ask him.

By this point Dean was seriously wondering whether or not he was even still awake. Pinching himself, he found that yes, he was. He jerked the Impala onto the shoulder (pulling across two lanes of traffic and possibly cutting off a few people but he really didn’t care). He stepped out to find that the person who had appeared on the roof of his car was already five feet away from it and completely unruffled. It looked like he’d just strolled up, not poofed onto the _roof_ of a moving _car_. (He wasn’t going to let that go.)

Dean’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the eyes of the other…man? Yes. Probably. Except. He had wings. Yes. Those were wings. Black wings. On his back. Dean groaned and leaned back onto his car. “Look. I get that my life is trying to fuck with me. I get it. But hallucinations? Do I really need that shit on top of all this other shit? Is it really necessary?”

The winged man looked almost hurt at the accusation. He tilted his head and inquired, “I am not a hallucination. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.” (Dean would swear that his voice hadn’t been so gravelly five seconds ago, but then again it was a hallucination.)

Dean scoffed, “Right. And I’m the Queen’s grandma.” He paused, shook his head, and covered his eyes with his hand. “Why am I even acknowledging you? You’re not real. You’re a hallucination. Just something else to deal with. Just…go away.”

When he looked up, the hallucination had vanished, and Dean blew out a breath. He climbed into his car and compulsively glanced over at the passenger seat. He found no one there, of course. 

Well, his phone was buzzing, but that wasn’t a flesh-and-blood person so it didn’t count.

**Sam:  
>You doing okay Dean?**

Dean rolled his eyes. What great timing for Sam to finally contact him for the first time in, Jesus, eight months. It’s not like he’d even bothered to greet him at the funeral, just texted his regrets and fucking stood at the very back anyway. (Although he might’ve walked up to Dean after the service. That, of course, assumes that Dean gave a shit and/or was aware of his surroundings after...after.)

**< Just fine. **  
**< bitch**  
**> jerk.**  
**> I just worry.**  
**> Ever since the funeral…I worry, man :(**

Dean threw the phone back onto the seat. Fuck that.

He spun the volume knob up until it wouldn’t go any higher and wailed along to Led Zeppelin’s Greatest Hits until he found a motel to crash in. The dump didn’t have much going for it except for a bed that didn’t seem to have too many bugs and a working sink.

That’s all he really needed nowadays.

* * *

_“Dean, honey, can you grab Ben from school today?”_

_“Lise, you know I’ve gotta work until seven today. I told you that weeks ago. That asshole with the Caddy is making me fix every single thing his little shit has done to his precious ride.”_

_“I know, Dean, but I really just can’t.”_

_“Okay, fine.” Dean turned to see Lisa smiling at the doorway, hair tied back in an uncharacteristically messy bun. “Have fun at work!”_

_Lisa rolled her eyes as she strolled towards him. “Just remember, honey, both of you home by eight. No ice cream.” She bent her head closer and closer, and Dean closed his eyes, waiting for the press of her lips on his…_

Dean jerked awake, jackknifing upright in the bed, _her_ name half-formed on his lips. 

“Goddammit,” he growled, scrubbing a rough hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”

He rolled over in bed and peeked at the little red numbers on the complementary alarm clock. He did a double-take and wondered if the damn thing was broken. No way was it only four in the morning. Assessing the light (or lack thereof) that streamed into the room through curtains that did absolutely nothing to block anything, he reasoned that yeah, maybe it _was_ four in the fucking morning. Well. Shit.

He knew that he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon, so he clambered out of the bed, narrowly avoiding putting his bare feet down in a patch of _something_ that was wet and semi-sticky on the carpeted floor. He groaned and stretched his six-foot-one frame, trying to work out the kinks of a long day driving and a restless night sleeping. (It didn’t work.)

He stooped to grab his duffel and shuffled towards the bathroom. He needed a shower.  
On the dresser his phone belted out the first verse of “Radar Love”. He ignored it. The call went to voicemail.

* * *

The shower pelted Dean with water that was just this side of hellfire, but he didn’t give a shit. He steadfastly ignored the voice in the back of his head that kept replaying _that_ ringtone, over and over and fucking over again, until he just wanted to scream and cry and beat something with a fist.

He almost did when a very familiar gravelly voice spoke up from outside of the shower curtain – the very flimsy shower curtain. “Excuse me, would you be able to speak about…”

Dean would later swear that he _did not_ shriek like a small child, but he will admit that his voice was an octave higher than usual when he shouted, _“Out! Get the fuck_ out _of the_ fucking _bathroom or so help me I will_ end _you!”_ (He also forgot about the hallucination’s status as a hallucination in those brief seconds, but it really was understandable.)

The voice went deeper, if that was even possible, as it asked, “But I cannot speak with you if I am outside.”

Dean growled and stuck his head around the shower curtain to find the rumpled-haired man with black wings squinting at him. “Look. I don’t want to talk. You are a _fucking_ hallucination so please go the _fuck_ away!”

Just like that, the man with wings was gone. Dean ignored the slight whoosh that followed the winged man. Obviously just another part of the hallucination.

Hallucination or not, the hot water was starting to turn Dean’s skin interesting shades of red. He twisted the knob a little too far to change the temperature, and the water slowly became just shy of hypothermia-inducing. Dean still didn’t give a shit though. All he needed it for was to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. Then he could dry off with a crappy motel towel and sleep until checkout time.

Unfortunately, such was not his fate that morning. Dean exited the bathroom, skin still covered with goosebumps, to find that his cellphone now had ten missed calls, thirteen text messages, and five new voicemails. All but one were from the same number. The other was from Sam. The idiot was apparently awake at the asscrack of dawn and wanted to know whether his brother was too. (Dean decided to forget the months without contact. He might’ve also skimmed over the fact that he’d been screening his calls and texts for just as long.)

**> Hey, you up?**  
**< sure**  
**> Wow. You sound chipper.**  
**< try waking up at four o fuckin clock and be all puppies an shit**  
**> Nightmares?**  
**< no**  
**< not bad. good. too good.**  
**> Oh.**

His phone lay quiet for a couple of minutes. Dean stared at it for the first thirty seconds, waiting to see if Sam would follow up with a smartass remark or something. Nothing. He stood and began to grab what little he’d strewn around the shitty little box of a room.

His phone beeped forlornly, once.

He looked. It wasn’t Sam.

**Lisa:  
>I miss Ben.**

Dean almost hurled the little block of silicone at the wall. Almost. Then he remembered the price tag on the thing when he’d bought it, and refrained. Instead, he stabbed the “power-off” button and chunked the phone into the very bottom of his pack.

If Sam needed him he could damn well wait a few hours.

* * *

**Sam:**  
**> Dean maybe you should go home**  
**> You know crash with Bobby for a while**  
**> Help out at the shop**  
**> Do something with yourself**  
**> Maybe that will stop the dreams**  
**> Dean?**  
**> Dean??**  
**> Dude is your freaking phone off?**  
**> Really?**  
**> Fine.**

* * *

_“Hey Dad!” Dean smiled as he held the cellphone up to his ear._

_“Ben, kid, what’s up? Listen, Mom couldn’t come get you today, so just hang tight for a little while, okay? This asshole and his Caddy…”_

_“I gotcha, Dad. It’s cool. I’ve got my iPod, I’ll rock out to Zep for a while.”_

_“That’s my boy. Listen, I’ll hurry up and get this done, then we can get some ice cream real fast, okay?” Dean grinned when a cheer echoed from the speaker. “Sounds like you agree. Now, don’t tell Mom when we get home, okay?”_

_Ben laughed. “‘Course not, Dad.” The line went dead, and Dean smiled stupidly into space for a few seconds before sticking his head back under the damn Caddy’s engine block. Stupid kid putting super glue where it had no right to be. How the hell did the little bastard get under here anyway?_

_Dean rolled out from under the car to find himself at a construction site, cranes and concrete pylons everywhere. One crane was struggling to lift a generator that hadn’t been properly secured – he could see the corner dropping dropping dropping, watched the machine falling falling falling, heard that beloved motor that he’d know anywhere purring purring purring, and heard screaming screaming screaming when the rearview window shattered and the frame buckled and the backseat caved in under the crushing weight of a two ton generator…_

Dean thrashed under the thin sheet, cold sweat sticking his t-shirt to the skin of his back. His thrashing finally catapulted him off of the lumpy mattress and onto the carpeted floor (right into the fucking sticky spot). He woke with a strangled yell and an outstretched hand.

Coming back to awareness slowly, he stared forlornly at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven thirty. Shit. Past checkout time now. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Muttering blackly to himself, he clambered to his feet and staggered into the bathroom to splash water on his face. His phone caught his eye. He should probably turn it on, but…he didn’t want to have to face _her_ again. But maybe Sam had texted him. Hell, he’d gotten tired of the radio silence anyway.

He sighed and grabbed the phone off of the side table, pressing the power button. One missed call. Ten texts. All from Sam. He glanced over the texts and grunted. Looks like someone was worried. Should he text him back? Probably.

He tried to press the new message button and hit the call button instead. Damn touchscreen fucking up what he was trying to do. Whatever. They probably needed to talk for once anyway.

Sam picked up after the first ring, asking, “Dean?”

Dean snorted, “No, it’s the president, Sammy.” Dean could almost hear the bitchface over the phone, but steamrolled on. “So, about that job at Bobby’s. You sure I’m welcome up there?”

Sam yelped, “Of course, Dean! Why wouldn’t you be?”

Dean plopped onto the mattress behind him. “Well, I mean, I kind of abandoned the family business. Figured anyone I used to know wouldn’t take that so well. Hell, you didn’t take it so well.”

After a pause, Sam sighed, “Dean, is that why you haven’t even fucking called Ellen in years? She’s been asking after you every so often. Wants to know how your job is doing.”

“And? What’d you say?”

“I just said that you were happy. Ellen said ‘Good’ and that was that.”

Dean sighed. “I’ll come out there and work with Bobby. Anything I need to work on first?”

“Like what?” Sam asked.

Rolling his eyes, Dean growled, “Like shooting or memorizing exorcisms or shit, Sammy! I haven’t actually gone on a hunt since I met Lisa!”

Dean could almost hear Sam grinding his teeth. “No, Dean, you’ll be safe at Bobby’s. He’s got so much warding in place that it’s almost impossible for anything short of a god to get in.”

“And you know that for a fact?!”

“Sort of. Bobby and I ganked it before it reached the third warding layer.”

Dean growled, “Well isn’t that comforting.” After a long pause, he muttered, “I’ll be there in two days. I’m out in Indiana and I really don’t think I can manage an eleven hour drive all at once.” He didn’t mention that he could probably make it in ten if he went through big cities. Big cities made him uncomfortable nowadays; he enjoyed the wide open back roads much more than the construction-riddled interstate highways.

Sam either didn’t know or didn’t mention it. He tentatively asked, “So you haven’t been sleeping well?”

Dean stretched his neck before answering. “I guess not. Just…can’t get him out of my head. Her too, but mostly…mostly…”

Sam cut in before he could actually get the name out. “It’s okay, Dean. I get it, you don’t want to talk. So…um, see you in two days?”

Dean grunted an affirmative. Sam said, “I’ll have a beer in the fridge just for you,” and hung up. Dean dropped his cellphone and flopped onto the bed.

A banging series of knocks on the door woke him five minutes later. The manager glared at him and his rumpled appearance when he cracked the door open. The man growled, “Out in ten minutes or pay for another night.” Dean sighed and closed the door, pulling off his still-sticky plaid overshirt and shrugging on his leather jacket over his tee. He shuffled out of the room with his duffle under the watchful eye of the manager. He clambered into the Impala and started her up, pulling out onto the highway.

The drive itself was mind-numbingly dull. Of course, since the universe hated him, the damn hallucination started popping up again around Champaign, constantly trying to ask something. It would come and go, starting to ask some version of the same question every damn time. Dean talked over it every time, too. He didn’t like what the question was shaping up to be. He didn’t need a fucking _hallucination_ psychoanalyzing him now. Sam had done enough of that already.

Around Davenport, Iowa, about four hours in, Dean heard the telltale flapping again. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and right before he set in on his newest rant, a hand on his shoulder stopped him cold. (Weren’t hallucinations supposed to be intangible?) The hallucination’s gravelly voice echoed from the backseat, stating “I understand that you do not wish to talk. I am here to watch over you.”

Dean had no idea what to say to that. So he said nothing. Just drove on until he hit Waterloo, Iowa. Though the sun was still in the sky, shining right in his damn eyes for that matter, his eyes were starting to glaze over from too little sleep and too much monotony. He stopped at the first motel he saw. When he looked into the backseat, nothing was there.

* * *

_Dean watched birds sing in the trees outside from his seat at the dining room table. Lisa walked in and caressed his shoulder, nodding her head towards the stairs (and the bedroom) He followed her upstairs, smile tugging at his lips. She pushed him down onto the bed with a small smirk on her face._

_Dean started when her face contorted into a mask of fury and she screamed, “You killed him! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED MY SON!” He crawled backwards up the bed until his back hit the headboard, hands shaking._

_He muttered, “Nonononononono...” Lisa screamed on and on in the background as he looked down at his hands covered in red red blood from eyes blurry with tears and arms covered in concrete dust and dry brown dirt. The Impala’s steering wheel was in front of him and he rocked back and forth in the contorted leather seat, clenching and unclenching his bloody hands around the wheel and shaking his head and screaming, “NONONONONONO! BEN!”_

Dean screamed himself awake again. He would have sworn that just seconds ago something was pinning him to the bed, but when he opened his eyes all he saw was the nicotine-stained ceiling. The gravelly voice that he’d probably now recognize anywhere came from beside him. “You were having a nightmare. I could not draw you out of it, so I had to restrain you. You were thrashing and about to fall off of the bed. I apologize if I made it worse.” Dean jerked his head around to find – guess who? – the hallucinations eyeing him with something in its eyes. Something that added weight and depth to that lightning blue.

Dean flopped back onto the bad and eyed the clock. Three wasn’t _too_ early for getting on the road, was it? Nah. He had about five hours to go, and Sam would be up, at least. The freak always woke him up at sunrise or some shit when he was still on the road.

Dean ignored the flutter of wings that he’d come to associate with the hallucination’s appearance and disappearance, rooting around in his bag for a clean shirt. Or at least one that didn’t stink like sweat and dirt. Finally finding one, he shrugged it on, conveniently not noticing the ketchup stain on the sleeve. So he hadn’t done laundry in…two weeks now. Whatever.

He gathered what little he’d taken out of his duffel last night (toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant) and zipped up the carryon. He dropped the room key on the lobby desk, since every sane person was obviously still asleep at this godforsaken hour, and slouched his way to the Impala. He threw his bag into the backseat and practically collapsed into the driver’s seat, eyes drooping. Maybe he should grab some coffee. He would hate to wreck Baby.

Even with the coffee, black as his soul, as he’d quipped to the waitress (he hadn’t been joking), his eyes kept falling shut. He jerked the wheel again as he finally realized that Baby was drifting into the center lane, about five seconds too late. Thank God there wasn’t any traffic on this early morning, because otherwise Baby would have been toast. He almost thought he’d imagined the fluttering of wings behind him, as sleep-deprived as he was, but a hard hand on his shoulder stopped that assumption.

“You are too tired to continue this endeavor, Dean Winchester. Please desist.” On that happy note, his car jerked over to the side of the road and shut off. Wow. Dean had to be more exhausted than he thought if his hallucination was this encompassing. Had he even left the motel room? For that matter, how did the winged man know his name? “Dean, I am asking you to please rest for a little while longer. Your body is about to give out.” With that cheerful premonition, Dean felt something rest on his temple, and he passed out cold. No dreams chased him into this sleep, only a gentle light with the shape of a man with black wings.

* * *

Dean woke up a solid eighteen hours later with a cop knocking on his window. “Sir? Are you alright? Sir, if you do not respond I will have to break into your car in order to ensure that you are not seriously injured.”

Dean groaned and flapped a hand at the window, finally grabbing the crank to roll it down. “’M s’rry off’cer. Bad c’ple o’ days, y’know. Kid’s…uh…”

The officer offered him a pitying smile, her hand coming to rest on the window. “Family trouble?”

Dean muttered, “Y’ c’ld say that. If, y’know, fam’ly trouble incl’des a dead kid an’ a wife who bl’mes you. Y’know. Run’o’th’mill fam’ly shit.”

The officer, her face falling with practically every word out of his mouth, asked, “Sir, are you intoxicated?”

Dean grunted, “W’sh I was. Nah. Can’t sleep f’r shit. Jus’ sl’p depr- … deprav- …”

She smiled softly. “Deprivation?”

“Mhmm.”

The officer shrugged and said, “There’s a diner just down the road, not a mile from here. If you want, I can drive you over there to get some coffee.”

Dean, always against any plan that left Baby behind but really loving the idea of caffeine, looked up and said, “’M not leavin’ Baby behin’.”

The officer peered into the car, but at Dean’s pointed look at the steering wheel she got it. “Ah. Okay, then. I can follow you to make sure that you don’t run off the road.” Dean, liking that plan a whole lot more, nodded. “Good,” the officer stated. “Come on, let’s get this caravan on the road.”

She strode back to her patrol car as Dean restarted Baby’s engine. Damn. He needed more gas. Hopefully the diner had a gas station close by.

It took three cups of black coffee and what probably amounted to half a gallon of cold water splashed on his face from the sink in the diner bathroom to restore coherency. Once he could sit up straight and talk without slurring every other syllable, he got up to leave the diner. The officer didn’t say a word when she stepped out of the booth (why she stayed he didn’t know) and handed him some money. Dean put up a hand, because goddammit he didn’t need charity. The police officer just said, “Her name was Elise. My baby. Nine months ago today. Let me help someone who’s going through what I did, just once, sir.” Dean dropped his eyes and nodded, taking the money from her hands.

As she turned back to the patrol car, Dean muttered, “Ben. His name was Ben.” The officer stutter-stepped, but ultimately kept going. Dean could have sworn that he saw her nod, just  
once, a gesture of solidarity from one childless parent to another.

He sniffled once, then squared his shoulders and slid back into his baby. He had four and a half more hours to go. And a gas station to find.

* * *

All fueled up and rolling steadily down the two-lane highway, Dean let the miles roll away under Baby’s tires. When he finally reached Singer Salvage, it was nearing dawn of the next day and his eyes were drooping again. Sam, the big worrywart that he was, sat with a shotgun on the porch, nodding off every once in a while. When Baby’s rumble filled the air, he jolted upright and nearly tripped on his way to where Dean had parked the car.

“Dean!” he exclaimed, “What the hell took you so long?”

Dean scrubbed his eyes with his hands and muttered, “Took an unplanned nap.”

Sam sputtered, “ _Nineteen hours,_ Dean? _Nineteen hours_ later than you said you’d be here! Your fucking phone was off again, too!”

“My damn phone must’ve died again. I got started about three hours early and took an eighteen hour nap. Then I stopped for a coffee. It took a while, okay? I’m fucking here now, so lemme find a real goddamn bed for the first time in, shit, months.”

Sam sighed, obviously not reassured. “Fine. But you, Bobby, and me? We need to talk.”

“Schedule that for this afternoon and you’ll have a deal, Sammy.” With that, Dean shuffled his way past Bobby into the bedroom that had always been his back when he was still hunting with John.

* * *

_“Dad, I…you got the truck, right?”_

_“Dean, what are you askin’ me?”_

_“Well, I was hoping that you’d leave me the Impala and…”_

_“And what, son? Spit it out!”_

_“I want to stay here with Lisa, dad. I think we’ve hit it off, and I really like her.”_

_“So you’ll abandon your family, your flesh and blood, for a girl you’ve known for a week, boy?”_

_“_ No _, dad! I just wanted a few more days! Tell me where you an’ Sammy will be and I’ll be there soon!”_

_“No you won’t. You choose and you choose now, son. You stay here and endanger this girl, or you come with your brother and I and keep helping people.”_

_“Dad, that’s not–”_

_“_ Choose _, Dean!”_

_“Dad–”_

_“_ Well _?”_

_“You can’t…I…”_

_*phone ringing*_

_“It’s not mine, son.”_

_“Hello? Lisa? What’s wrong?”_

_…_

_“You…it came out what?”_

_…_

_“Oh god, oh…no, no, no, I’m not mad just…hold on for a couple seconds, okay, Lise?”_

_…_

_“I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Love you, Lise.”_

_…_

_*phone clicks shut*_

_“Dad, I…”_

_“What, Dean? What’s wrong?”_

_“I…Lisa’s…she’s…”_

_“Spit it_ out _, son!”_

 _“Lisa’s_ pregnant _, dad! I can’t…I can’t…”_

_“Then you’re staying, I suppose.”_

_“I can’t leave her alone, dad. I just can’t.”_

_“I understand that. But you listen to me. You stay here, this girl you just met will be_ in danger _, do you hear me? Your presence will put her on the radar of every nasty bastard that wants a piece of you. I get that there’s a kid in this now, and that change things. But think, Dean! You stay now, and both the girl_ and _your kid is in the line of fire. You want to do that to your kid?”_

_“You did it to us. Sir.”_

_“Don’t you pull that on your father. I did what I_ had to, _and don’t you forget it, son.”_

 _“Believe me,_ sir _, it’s hard to forget. And I’m not going to do that to Lisa. I’m leaving. Whether you give me permission or not. Hell, I’ll slip any knot you try to use, get out of any handcuffs. That’s my_ kid _out there. This is my fuck up, and I’m taking responsibility for it. Isn’t that what you keep telling us to do?”_

_“Fine. Take the damn Impala. Go.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“Get_ out of here _, Dean! You want to leave so damn bad, then_ GO _! Don’t expect to come crying back to open arms if she ends up food for some creature, because you’re_ not coming back _. You’ve made your damn choice. Own up to it.”_

_“Yessir. I’ll just…”_

_“_ Leave _, Dean._ Now _.”_

Dean flung an arm out with a muttered, “Dad, wait…” It definitely took his by surprise when his wrist made contact with another warm body.

Said warm body grunted and Sam’s voice filled the room. “You okay, Dean?”

Dean groaned and rolled over. “Go ‘way.”

His little brother sighed, “C’mon , Dean, you actually have to come downstairs. It’s almost noon and Bobby wants to meet you for the first time in, what, eight years? Eight and a half?”

Dean grumbled a few choice curses but rolled off of the warm bed and shrugged into some clothes. He looked up to find Sam staring at the wall. Sam muttered, “Are you decent again?”

Dean chuckled, mood lightened just a bit. “Yeah, Sammy, don’t worry. Everything’s covered.”  
The younger man turned and nodded toward the door. “Great. Then you can go talk with Bobby. I think he’s got Ellen on the phone, too.”

Dean muttered, “Fuck,” but made his way down the stairs to where Bobby sat with the phone pressed against his ear. When the older hunter noticed him, he waved Dean over with his free hand.

“Yeah, Ellen, I hear ya. Well, the idjit’s finally decided to wake up. You can jabber at him for a while now.”

Dean could hear Ellen’s sputtering from across the table, but took the phone when it was offered. “Uh, hey, Ellen,” he said.

She sighed and asked, “Dean, honey, how are you? You feeling okay? I haven’t heard from you in near five years now, I’m almost tempted to head on down there.”

Dean shook his head and sat, cutting in with a “No, no, Ellen, I’m fine. You keep the Roadhouse running. How’s, um, how’s Joanna these days?”

“Oh, Jo’s doin’ well. She keeps trying to convince me to let her hunt. That’s not happening, no matter what your brother says about how well she handles her knives.”

Dean grinned. He’d missed the mother bear side of Ellen. “I hear you, Ellen. Is Ash still hanging around with that ridiculous haircut? What’d he call it – business up front, party in the back?”

He could hear Ellen’s chuckle. “Close enough. That boy’s still takin’ up a room in this Roadhouse, that’s for sure. Although he’s done some good for the hunters these days.”

“Oh?”

“Some kind of tracking method for demons. He’s helped out your brother quite a bit, you know.”

“Huh. He didn’t tell me that.”

“And on that note, Dean Winchester, I can tell a diversion when I hear one. I heard from Sam eight months ago. How’ve _you_ been doing, you sorry bastard?”

Dean sighed. He knew she would’ve brought it up eventually. “I’m doin’ better, Ellen.” At her snort, he insisted, “No, really. Less nightmares and stuff. Just can’t, I can’t…”

Ellen cut him off. “You don’t have to talk about him right now, Dean. You just work on feelin’ better, you hear? I don’t want to hear from Bobby about you working yourself to death out there. You take good care of yourself.”

Dean muttered, “Yes ma’am.”

She stated, “Now you give the phone back to Bobby. I gotta talk to him about Walker. He’s been hangin’ around the Roadhouse again and I’d like him gone. He’s bad for business. Too violent for my establishment, and I’m worried that he’s bringing bloodsuckers here. Three have showed up in the past month.”

Dean nodded. “Well, I dunno if my opinion means anything, but I’d pull out that shotgun you used to keep under the bar and tell him to scram or you’ll shoot his balls off.” He ignored the look on his brother’s and Bobby’s face, continuing, “I know that’d work on me. You’re pretty scary with a shotgun in your hands.”

Ellen chuckled, “You won’t get anywhere with flattery, boy. But I’ll keep that in mind. Will I be seeing you?”

“I dunno, Ellen. I’ve gotta get back on my feet, you know?”

“You do that, hon. Hand me back to Bobby now. There’s a good kid.”

“Bye, Ellen.”

Bobby took the offered phone and chatted for a few more minutes with Ellen while Dean puttered around putting together an omelet. When Bobby hung up, he was chowing down on wonderful cheesy heaven with a sizable side of bacon.

Bobby settled himself into the chair before saying, “Dean, son, it’s good to see you again.”

Dean grunted through a mouthful of bacon and egg. Bobby shook his head and chuckled. “Nine years and you still haven’t learned a speck of manners. Idjit.”

Dean shrugged with another mouthful of omelet. He swallowed and said, “Whatever, old man. It’s not like you’re much better.”

“You respect your elders.”

“I’ll respect my elders when they stop being hypocrites about my eating habits, okay?”

Bobby nudged his trucker cap a bit higher on his forehead. “Dean, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for everything. If I had my way, you’d still be in Indiana and out of this mess for good. Instead you’re out here and probably going to get dragged back in.”

Dean shrugged, face closing off. “Whatever. This is what it is. I can’t do shit to change it, so why should I pretend that I could, you know?”

Bobby sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Just go get yourself ready for your first day on the job. You got one day to get yourself situated and all. I figure you need it. You start tomorrow.”

Dean shoved away from the table, leaving a quarter of the omelet still on the plate. “Yeah, right. The job.” He stomped over to the staircase before remembering, “Hey, uh, Bobby? Can I use your laundry machine?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ , you idjit.”

Dean thanked him and walked much more sedately up the stairs, grabbing all of his clothing out of his duffel to be safe and sorting it by color before throwing it in the washer. Working his first day on the job with mustard stains on his shirt and something unidentifiable on his jeans wouldn’t be a good idea.

His afternoon descended into a calming haze of laundry soap and the clanking of Bobby’s old dryer. His dead phone sat on the dresser of his room, charging.

After all the laundry was folded, Dean wandered through Bobby’s house, rediscovering his library. He grinned when he found the old shelf of books he’d bought with his own money, old dystopian novels and science fiction. He pulled down a thin novel and walked back up the stairs. Maybe a book would keep away sleep for a little while.

The book did keep him awake, but nothing stopped him from slipping into unconsciousness as soon as he finished it. The moon cast shadows on his twitching eyelids soon enough.

* * *

_Dean stumbled out of his bedroom to find an old motel room, like the hundreds he’d stayed in since he was four. Sam was staring at him, at his shaking hands and pale face._

_“Dean? What’s wrong?”_

_Dean gulped, “Sammy…I…”_

_Sam stared. “So I wasn’t…you’re staying?”_

_Dean looked at his feet, hating the betrayal all over Sam’s face. “Lisa…”_

_Sam cut him off. “Dammit, Dean! I…you selfish bastard!” Dean tried to say something, to defend himself, but Sam kept screaming at him. “You don’t get to get out! You_ don’t _! Damn you! Why can_ you _just up and leave, huh, why you and…” He cut himself off and stood staring at his big brother._

 _Dean could practically hear the end of that hanging in the air. “Why you and not me?” He stared anywhere but at Sam and caught a crumpled brochure sticking out of the trashcan that proudly displayed the words: “Stanford! The right choice for_ you _!”_

_Dean tried to say something, anything, only for his duffel to be hurled at him with clothes spilling out of it and Sam to spit, “If you’re so damn set on leaving us, then why don’t you just–”_

Dean jerked awake when his phone started blaring “Radar Love” at full volume. From the thump that he heard through the wall, Sam had too.

Dean glared at the traitorous phone and didn’t even move to turn off the ringer. Sam stumbled into the doorway, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Dude,” he mumbled, “Why aren’t you fucking answering that?”

Dean scowled and stared at the phone as the damn song finally shut off. “I didn’t want to, Sam.”

Sam sighed, figuring that only one person that he knew of _might_ incite this sort of reaction in Dean. “Dean, even _I_ know that you can’t run forever,” he stated.

“Well, I’ve been doing a damn good job so far. Shut up and get your ass out of my doorway, Sasquatch. I gotta get ready for work anyway.”

Sam turned and walked away, shaking his eyes. Dean closed his and lay back on the bed. Of course she’d call again. She always was persistent.

He groaned and clambered to his feet. He had a job to do. And clean clothes – for once – to put on.

Once he acquired a clean outfit, Dean made his way out to the salvage yard. As he stepped out of the house, a beige car rolled up making some very uncomfortable noises. The man that stepped out of said car seemed extremely familiar, but Dean couldn’t place where he’d seen him. He was _sure_ that he’d remember eyes that blue and a style of dress that eclectic (a trenchcoat in the middle of the summer?).

He walked up, seeing Bobby nowhere in sight. “So, whatcha got?” he asked.

The man gave him a strange look. “It is a 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V. I believe the previous owner called it the Cartier special edition.”

Dean sighed, “No, no, no. I mean, what’s _wrong_. Not what model it is.”

The man tilted his head. “I see. I actually do not know what is wrong. I had hoped that you would. You are a mechanic, are you not?”

“Well, kinda…but this isn’t a mechanic’s shop. This is a _salvage yard_. Where people go to get parts for their classic cars.”

“I did not know whether the vehicle required a replaced part. I decided to come here in case it did.”

Dean shook his head. “Okay, look, let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Dean. I can _probably_ help with your car. Who’re you?”

The man stared down at the outstretched hand before unsurely placing his hand in Dean’s and shaking once. “I am Castiel. If you could aid me with my automotive upkeep, I would be grateful.”

Dean nodded slowly before taking his hand back – Castiel was still hanging onto it – and walking toward the old car. “So a ’78 Lincoln, you say? Never touched one of those. Let’s see what she’s got under the hood.” He popped the hood to find an engine block so poorly cared for that he actually died a little inside. The fanbelts were fraying, the engine itself was dusty and oil-spattered, the carburetor looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the day it rolled out of the factory. Dean stared, struck dumb.

Castiel chose that moment to step forward. “You can fix this, correct? You are indeed a mechanic?”

Dean almost cried. “Yeah, I can fix her. But, God, man, I almost want to take her away from you. How could you let her get this bad? Didn’t the dude you bought her from explain that the carburetor needs cleaning every so often? Do you even have a fuel filter? Oh my God, do you even know what I’m saying?”

Castiel stared with squinted eyes at him. Obviously not, his face seemed to say. Dean stormed away to grab alcohol and an oil pan. He’d need a fuckton of alcohol to clean this carburetor, that’s for sure. He could smell the fuel and dirt deposits from five feet away.

As he worked, Castiel hovered. He didn’t even ask questions. He just…hovered. Occasionally he did mention something along the lines of, “You are a very good mechanic. I’m sure your family is proud of you.” Dean ignored that, though. He didn’t need to talk to some random stranger about patented Dean Winchester-size issues. Nope.

Once Dean finally finished cleaning out the truly disgusting carburetor, the sun had already set and Castiel was looking rather impatient. Dean bolted the carburetor to the engine and sternly ordered the man to bring the car back in two days so that he could find a fuel filter and better fanbelts. As he turned away from the man and his poor car, he could have sworn that he saw a flash of black feathers. But when he turned back, all that was there was a cloud of dust from the leaving Lincoln.

He shook it off as a trick of the fading light and trudged back to Bobby’s porch, where the old man stood watching him. As he slowly walked up the stairs, Bobby asked, “Did you know that guy?”

Dean stared at the old man like he’d grown a second head. “No, I just met him when he drove up today.”

Bobby muttered something about them seeming “mighty cozy” and walked away. Dean decided to ignore him and fend off sleep with a good book. He also ignored Bobby motioning for Sam to come talk with him in the kitchen. Damn paranoid bastard.

* * *

Sam padded into Dean’s bedroom, where Dean hunched quietly over a well-worn copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say, and began, "So, I've got a case... it's..."

Dean glanced up, eyes focused on his brother. Sam didn’t stutter unless he thought he was about to say something that would hurt Dean. "Spit it out, Sam," he challenged.

Sam shuffled his feet, clutching his duffel. "Um... it might be connected to when, uh, Ben, you know..."

Dean snorted but looked up from his book. This sounded important. "So, what? Freaky shit followed me out, you're saying?"

Sam looked up, eyes wide and earnest. "Maybe,” he stated. “Something similar happened to... um...a single mom and her kid on that same stretch a week before. Coincidence?"

Dean shook his head. He really did _not_ want to think about that right now. "Maybe those damn workers are just shitty at their jobs," he growled.

Sam huffed, his face going hard, "Or, maybe something really has it out for kids."

Dean rolled his eyes and tried to nonchalantly refocus on his book. (Sam could see that it wasn’t working.) "Whatever."

Sam made to leave, hand on the doorframe, when an uncharacteristically tentative voice from behind him asked, "Hey Sammy?"

Sam turned with a reassuring smile on his face. "Yeah, Dean?"

Dean looked down, muttering, "If something did ... you know ...” He looked back up, his eyes hard, hand clenched into a fist beside his knee, “Gank it good for me, will ya?"

"Of course, Dean."

Sam made to leave the room but stopped again when Dean asked, “Hey, uh, Sammy, who…who was the other…you know.”

Sam gave him a funny look, but answered all the same. “Elise. The kid’s name was Elise. Apparently her mom was a police officer who had just gotten off duty and was driving her kid home from daycare…Dean? Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean smiled through the wetness in his eyes (he could swear that he’d never cried this much _before_ ) and just said, “You ever felt like something was helping you out?”

Sam eyed his brother and asked, “Um…why?”

Dean looked up. “Because I met her. The mother. On the drive up here. She was…she was a strong lady.”

“So is _that_ why you took an extra, what, sixteen hours to get here? You and her…”

Dean cut that train of thought off as fast as he could. “Hell no, Sam! Just…just no. She just bought me some coffee and sent me on my way. None of…that. Why the hell would you think that?”

Sam shrugged and muttered, “Because the Dean I used to know did everything in sight, that’s why.”

Dean shook his head and muttered right back, “Well, I’m not that Dean anymore, okay? I settled down and shit. You should try it. Worked wonders.”

Sam rolled his eyes and left the room in a huff. Dean leaned back into the pillow and picked his book back up. Whatever.

In a few minutes, the book was resting on his face as he slept.

* * *

_“Hey Lisa! Guess what?” Dean shouted as he shouldered his way through the door of their new house._

_“What’s that, Dean, baby?” she answered from somewhere in the house._

_“I got a job in that mechanic’s shop just down the road! I get paid by the job, but the boss said that people come through every day so I should be set!” Dean made his way through the little house, still unsure of where everything was. As he’d expected, he found Lisa sitting on the floor in the newly-painted nursery. “Hey, Lise. You okay?”_

_Lisa grinned, the light from the window catching on the silver engagement ring with a wrought-iron rose as the centerpiece. “I think I am, Dean. I’m so glad you’re here.”_

_Dean smiled. “Me too, Lise. Me too.”_

Dean was shaken out of bed by his Sasquatch of a brother, and narrowly missed flopping off the mattress entirely. “God, wha’ d’you want, S’mmy?” he groaned.

Sam sighed, “You were dreaming again, Dean. And almost crying. It was kinda weird.”

Dean gathered himself, levering his body upright. “Right. Whatever. I’m good now. You headin’ out or something? You know I don’t get up until ten.”

Sam scowled at his big brother. “Dean, you need to be up at seven. Bobby wants you ready to work by eight. No excuses unless you’re actually sick.”

Dean growled, “Slave driver,” as he tumbled out of the bed, still fully dressed from the night before.

Sam rolled his eyes and muttered, “I was actually gonna head out. Just wanted to tell you. Didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d died or something.”

Dean scowled as he shrugged on a new shirt. “Hey now.”

Sam scuffled his feet. “Hey, man, I’m sorry about what I said last night. I guess we both need to get to know each other again, you know? You gotta admit that what I said would’ve been the result before…Lisa.”

Dean tilted his head, conceding the point. “Fine. Whatever. Gimme two minutes and I’ll be right down, okay?”

His little brother grinned and said, “Don’t take too long, jerk.”

Dean grinned back and, as he turned, quipped, “Don’t trip on the stairs on the way down. Bitch.”

* * *

After Sam drove off in his Prius (what the hell, seriously) Dean collapsed into the Impala. He had a fuel filter to find, and when he got back he had fanbelts to scavenge for.

His hunt for an easy-install fuel filter took him into the downtown area of Sioux Falls, where he finally discovered one in an out-of-the-way shop with only one lift and a single mechanic. The old guy nodded when he asked seriously whether the filter would work in a ‘70’s model car, and when he looked it over it seemed to be simple enough. He paid the man probably double the actual worth of the part with cash and left, happy that one of the parts he needed for Castiel’s car had been found.

The fanbelts proved trickier. Dean looked all over Bobby’s spectacular collection of cars for anything with fanbelts that hadn’t practically frozen from disuse and the elements. Finally, after two hours of scouring the yard, he found an old Continental that hadn’t been sitting for _too_ long. The fanbelts were still usable and supple, so it counted as a win in his book. He marked the car, just in case he needed to find it again for another part (like the transmission, because Castiel’s car’s transmission sounded like it was about to go).

After that exhausting hunt across the county, practically, Dean fell into his bed at Bobby’s and promptly drifted off into a deep sleep. For once, he didn’t dream.

* * *

Dean was startled awake at nine in the morning by an ungodly shrieking and rattling sound. He stumbled down the stairs, tugging on a clean shirt and buttoning his jeans. When he stood on the porch, he found the source of the racket: Castiel with his poor car. He didn’t even notice Bobby following him out, cup of Jack-laced coffee in hand.

Dean approached the still-rattling car and remarked, “She didn’t sound this bad last time.”

Castiel nodded and replied, “Yes, the car does indeed sound more beleaguered today. It did not make as much noise yesterday.”

Dean picked up on the word choice. “Not _as much_ noise? Castiel, it sounds to me like your brakes are going, your fanbelt is about to give up the ghost, and you’re low on oil to boot. How the hell could so many things go wrong on one car?”

Castiel shrugged. “I do not know. Can you fix it?”

Dean sighed and nodded. “Just lemme go and grab the fuel filter and fanbelt I picked up yesterday.” Castiel nodded, so Dean tromped back to the house to find Bobby in his way. “What do you want, old man?” he asked.

Bobby hissed, “Don’t you think there’s something suspicious, you idjit? I know for a fact that you’d have noticed the brakes two days ago, and the oil’s just as obvious, ‘specially when you’re messin’ with the carburetor. Why’s this shit just poppin’ up now?”

Dean shrugged, making to walk past. “I dunno, Bobby. I don’t care, either. If Castiel was something dangerous, he wouldn’t have gotten through the wards. I’m not worried.” With that, he tromped to the sitting room, where he’d put the parts the night before.

He didn’t hear Bobby mutter, “But I am,” behind his back.

When he made it back outside, he found Bobby trying to wheedle Castiel out of making Dean do the repairs. Dean scowled and yelled, “Bobby, quit antagonizing the man! I’ve got this, okay?” He didn’t notice the bullheaded stubbornness and refusal written all over said man’s face, and the trepidation written all over Bobby’s. He just set the parts down and got to work installing them.

As he worked, he talked. It made him feel better, since he was so used to owners that couldn’t leave him alone, asking constant questions about what he was doing and why. On the contrary, Castiel didn’t say a thing. In fact, every time he looked up from the engine while trying to install the new fanbelt, he found the man fifty feet away from where he saw him last and staring at the “graffiti” (aka protective sigils). He could have sworn that he’d heard the man say something like, “No need to worry about selkies, they wouldn’t come this far inland,” but he had to be imagining things. Even _Bobby_ didn’t know what some of the sigils warded off. He just trusted that they did their job.

As he messed with the brakes, he nattered on about what he’d heard as Castiel drove in. He mentioned the transmission and needing to find a new one sometime, because the clutch was about to go. He thought he’d heard a hum of acceptance, but his head was under the chassis at the time so he wasn’t sure.

Once he’d looked over the car thoroughly and installed the fuel filter and fanbelt without _too_ much hardship, he ordered the man to come back in two more days again, because he had to get the poor car new brakes – his were almost ruined beyond all hope of repair.

Castiel left after shaking his hand for what was probably ten seconds too long to be normal. But Dean didn’t want to let go even then, because Castiel’s hand was _so warm_ and it felt like the longer he held on the better he felt. He finally let go with a reluctant sigh and waved once as he turned back to the house.

Bobby stood in the window, watching the old Lincoln putter off of his property.

He walked inside to find Bobby moving back toward a table, on which was spread multiple indexes of supernatural creatures and different types of demons, along with a notepad with a few words scribbled on it. He walked closer as he asked, “So, Bobby, what’s with the spread?”

The old man replied, “Sam called with somethin’ to look up. I’m fact-checking him.”

Dean knew for a fact that there was no way Sam had even had the time to get to the site, let alone narrow down the culprit. Also, an incubus couldn’t have caused the generator fall – even he knew that. But he shrugged it off as just another quirk and made his way up to his room. _Slaughterhouse Five_ awaited him.

Once again he fell asleep with the book resting on his face. That night, he dreamt of black wings and quiet mornings on a lake alone. He didn’t hear Barry Hay crooning “Radar Love” into the light of the setting sun, or if he did, he definitely didn’t acknowledge it.

* * *

The morning after his grueling two day drive, Sam rolled out of bed early. He had a construction site to visit.

He pulled on his suit as he went over what little he was able to learn from the papers. Apparently the construction company had declined to comment on either incident, although the foreman himself had expressed his sympathy toward the families of the children. That didn’t read right to Sam, so he decided to approach this with a more open mind.

He pulled out his construction inspector badge, committing the name to memory as he drove to the site. First he’d find the worker whose job it was to tie the damn generators in.

After asking around the site, he finally managed to find the guy. The way the other workers eyed this one guy made him uneasy – almost seemed like he was an outcast, like he’d pissed them _all_ off in a pretty big way.

But the guy was…laidback might not be the word. More along the lines of nervous and trying to hide it. Which Sam could understand, because having the inspector ask specifically for you had to be nerve-wracking.

Sam shook the man’s clammy hand and started off by asking, “Sir, are you the worker around here responsible for keeping things safe at night?”

The worker nodded with a strange look on his face. “Yessir.”

Sam tilted his head. “Then why have two fallen in the past month? Are you doing your job Mr…”

The man gulped. “Hollenbeck, sir. Steve Hollenbeck. And I do my job, sir.”

“Then what is your explanation for two dead children, Mr. Hollenbeck?” Sam inquired, eyes narrowed.

“Sir, I was raising the generator that first night, and I swear, sir, I tied it in, but it just up and fell like someone’d loosened the strap. I didn’t do it, sir,” Hollenbeck babbled.

Sam cut him off. “So you’re _sure_ that it wasn’t you?” Hollenbeck nodded frantically. “Did you by chance notice anything strange? People you hadn’t seen? Spots of cooler air? A sulfuric smell? Possibly any kind of strange animals?”

It seemed to Sam that a glint appeared in Hollenbeck’s eyes. “Well, sir, I thought I saw somebody around that I hadn’t seen before, but we get new workers every so often.”

Sam zeroed in on the possible lead. “I see, Mr. Hollenbeck. By any chance, did the air seem cooler around this person? Did they seem…different for any reason?”

Hollenbeck shrugged. “Sure, it felt a little cooler, I guess.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Well…he was wearing some pretty weird clothes.”

“Like what, Mr. Hollenbeck? Any information you tell me can help.”

“Well…I swear, he looked like one of those homeless types, right? Baggy clothes and dirt all on his face. He had this metal box in his hand, I dunno what was in it. He looked like one of those guys who climbed all over the skyscrapers in construction back in the day. But that’s nuts, right?”

Sam nodded absently. “Right,” he muttered. He turned away, throwing a “Thank you for your time” over his shoulder. He had some research to do, and if nothing panned out, he had a foreman to talk to.

Something weird was going on, and Sam didn’t know whether it was a ghost or a shady worker. Yet.

* * *

Dean had only just pulled into Bobby’s drive with a new set of drum brakes and a growling stomach when he heard the telltale squealing and shrieking of Castiel’s junker rolling toward the shop. He groaned and pulled up next to the shop, anticipating yet another long day of fixing simple mechanical problems – and no lunch break.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just told Castiel to go to the mechanic in town yet. Maybe because he didn’t like the old geezer’s prices. At least Bobby would keep the prices sensible.

He didn’t allow himself to think that maybe he almost expected to see the old junker every day now.

Dean toodled back to the shop, where Bobby’d already lifted the old junker onto the only lift he’d been able to find. The old man was staring at the radiator with a look normally reserved for Rumsfield and his more egregious wrongdoings. Dean sighed and let his head rest on the steering wheel as he came to a stop. What had Castiel done (or rather, not done) now?

Turns out, he’d let the radiator get so low on coolant that the engine just about locked up. While Dean groaned and listened to Bobby chew out the man, Castiel just stood and stared. Like he had _no clue_ what he’d almost done to his car.

God protect him from clueless car owners.

This was worse than the kid and the Caddy back at…

Nope. Different topic.

Dean grabbed the new brakes and began the odious process of removing, not only the wheel, but also the brakes. He inspected each one as he removed them. Turns out, just like he’d thought, Castiel hadn’t just allowed the brake pads to deteriorate to nothing, but also apparently hadn’t even _checked_ his brake fluid levels. Hell, he tried checking for any leaks, but he found nothing. It was so low that he actually wondered how the car had come to a stop without running into something.

Good Lord, help this man and his poor car.

Dean laboriously installed the new brakes and ordered Castiel to _please, for the love of God, make sure that all of your fluid levels are good_. Castiel nodded and shook Dean’s hand again, but Dean was pulled away from the contact by Bobby shouting for a hand. Dean turned away, barely noticing the other man’s perturbed expression, and went to help Bobby.

Over his shoulder, he called, “I’d better not see you for another two days at least, Cas!”

He didn’t even really register the nickname until Bobby sputtered, “ _Cas_? Since when…”

Dean shrugged. “Eh, ‘Castiel’ is too long. Dude needs a shorter name.” He turned back to the still-sputtering older man and asked, cheeky smile on his face, “So, whatcha need, Bobby my man?”

Bobby just shook his head and pointed at a pile of what seemed to be fenders, muttering about “stupid idjits” and a bad back.

* * *

_The phone rang five times before Sam picked up._

_“What do you want, Dean?”_

_“Uh, hey, Sammy…”_

_“It’s Sam.”_

_“Okay, then, Sam, whatever. So…you graduated yet?”_

_“I got my GED last year.”_

_“Oh. Uh…”_

_“What do you want, Dean. I’m busy.”_

_“With what?”_

_“I’ve got a lead on a wendigo in North Carolina.”_

_“Oh. Um, you be safe, okay?”_

_“Whatever, Dean.”_

_The loud snap as Sam hung up hurt worse than the blankness of his voice had._

Of course, the next day, bright and early at eight in the morning, the old junker once again rolled into Bobby’s shop. While its brakes were (finally) silent, its transmission was making more than enough noise to make up for that. As the car rolled to a stop and Castiel downshifted, the poor clutch squealed and ground itself to bits trying to grab the old gears. The racket woke Dean, who hadn’t had a good night’s sleep _at all_.

He grumbled his way down the stairs and out the door to find Castiel with a very serious look on his face…and a flat tire. Dean just about exploded, already irritable, but the way Castiel eyed him stilled his wrath.

“Dean,” the other man stated.

“Cas,” Dean replied.

“I require aid.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, man, I can see that. But, uh, I’m _not a mechanic_. You know? I work for the _salvage yard_. We find _parts_ , not _fix flats_.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Were you not a mechanic before you took this job?”

Dean stopped. Nope, not going there. Time to change the subject. “Whatever. So, a flat? Okay, let’s get this junker on the lift. C’mon, whatcha looking at me like that for?”

Dean pulled the spare out of the compartment on the back of the car. As he worked to switch the wheels, he told Castiel about the transmission. “Listen, man, your transmission is about to give up the ghost. Almost sounds like your clutch is about to go. You know what to do if that happens on the road?”

He looked up from the lugnuts to find Castiel staring at him with a strange look on his face. Dean asked, “Well?” and he seemed to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“I believe that I can manage, Dean,” he replied stiffly. “You shift up when you have reached the optimum speed, correct?”

Dean nodded. “And to slow down, you down-shift. Easy-peasy.”

Castiel gave him a quizzical look, but nodded back. “Yes. When should I return to pick up the new transmission?”

Dean bobbed his head, thinking about how damn hard it was going to be to get that thing out of the old junker. “Um…gimme three days. Come back on the third day, unless it actually does break on you. Just…take it easy, man. No slamming it into fifth, right?” He grinned, only to find that Castiel hadn’t gotten the quip. “Well, um, okay. So, come back in three days, I’ll have a better transmission on the line for you.”

Castiel nodded. “Very well, Dean. Is the car fixed to your standards at the moment?”

“Yeah, yeah, flat’s fixed. I’d get a new tire for that wheel, almost looks like someone slashed it. No way is that tire salvageable.”

Castiel stepped forward for their handshake. “I will do so. Take care of yourself, Dean.”

Dean held onto Castiel’s hand for a few seconds longer than normal. “Don’t you worry, Cas. I will.”

As Castiel slid into his old junker and Dean turned away, he once again caught sight of black feathers. Once again, the only thing there when he turned around was Cas’s car churning up dust as it rolled away.

* * *

Sam had spent an entire day, and most of the next one, going through the records of that site. Nothing. He had found absolutely _nothing_. Not even any anomalies in the neighboring properties. No reason at all for any kind of malicious spirit to do any sort of mischief. In fact, he couldn’t find a single other report about the incidents that lent any credence to Hollenbeck’s testimony.

Every single other worker that had been on site had said something akin to “The generator wasn’t tied in right from the start.” Which was suspicious, since the only account that differed from that vein was – take a guess – the guy who actually did the tying. The more he dug into this pile of shit, the more Sam was starting to suspect human stupidity, not paranormal involvement.

Just to be sure, he donned his inspector’s suit and badge and revisited the worksite. The work was wrapping up, and Sam noticed that Hollenbeck was nowhere near the generators. In fact, he couldn’t see Hollenbeck at all. Good riddance.

He found the foreman easily, and noticed that he straightened with a stiff expression when he caught sight of the suit. The foreman asked, “Yes, sir?”

Sam pulled out his badge. “Inspector Brown. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the incidents a few months ago?”

The foreman held out a hand. “Name’s Wentworth, sir. I hear you’ve already talked to Hollenbeck. Why me?”

Sam took the handshake, noting its firmness. “Yesterday I looked into the facts of his report. Some things weren’t adding up, considering witness reports. I figured you might be able to shed a little light on the situation.”

Wentworth nodded, then sighed. “I suppose I can. See, Hollenbeck…he was in a bad place a couple of months ago. His wife left him, took the kid, almost took the house. He went a bit too deep in the bottle, if you catch my drift.”

Sam stared. “You mean to say that Hollenbeck was allowed on this site _drunk_?”

“No, we didn’t let him on if he was obviously drunk off his ass. But every so often he’d manage to sneak a flask by us. And, well, no one noticed that first time. Just thought he was in a funk. After the second time, I wised up and tossed him off the site until he straightened out. Today he’s at the weekly AA meeting.”

“I…see. So he was under the influence, and didn’t tie the generators in correctly?”

Wentworth gulped and nodded. “Yessir.”

“You do realize my nephew was the second victim.”

“I’m…sorry to hear that, sir.”

Sam sighed. “Just…make _certain_ that if he’s back on site, he hasn’t touched alcohol at all. I don’t want to have to come back here with a warrant.”

Wentworth nodded quickly. “Yessir, I understand, sir. No more drink for the man. Honest.”

Sam spun and, as he walked away, muttered, “Next time I’ll bring the shotgun, see if I won’t.”

* * *

The next couple of days passed in a haze of trying to get the old Continental onto the lift. Multiple times he almost gave up and just climbed into Baby, aiming to get a new transmission off of the old mechanic nearby. But he figured, Castiel had come to the salvage yard, he probably wanted parts as original as he could get.

The damn car fought him every step of the way. First it refused to start rolling from its spot in the yard, although he did thank every deity he knew that the damn thing wasn’t on one of the stacks. Once he got it semi-mobile, the steering was shot. Then once he got it turning, the parking brake stuck in the engaged position.

Every so often, Bobby would show up with some menial job for him, but Dean refused each one. “I need to get this transmission out for Cas,” he insisted each time. “Dammit, Bobby, why do I need to sweep the shop? You’re the one who gets metal shavings fucking everywhere.” Bobby just shook his head and carried on, eyeing Dean with the sort of look normally reserved for victims or suspects. Dean ignored him, because, really? What could Cas do, stare him to death?

Two days after Cas left, Dean stood staring at the damn transmission hanging on a crane, casting a strange shadow on the shop floor with the light of the setting sun. Bobby approached him again. “Look, boy,” he began, “You sure something’s not up? I never seen you so damn focused about something that’s not your car.”

Dean glanced up from where he’d been glaring at the damn junker. “What?”

Bobby sighed, “Son, I’m just worried. Who knows what this Castiel could be.”

Dean shook his head. “Wait, wait. You think Cas, what, _compelled_ me to fix his car? His piece of shit car, that, if he really was able to whammy me, he could probably snap his fingers and fix?”

Bobby shrugged. “I dunno, Dean. This type of behavior just doesn’t seem like…you.”

“Look, Bobby, you’re great, Sam’s great, but you don’t know _me_ anymore. See, I left this business. I may have grown up with a gun in my hands, but I put that damn thing down when I met Lisa. That’s not me anymore. I’m not…I don’t sleep around anymore, Bobby. I’m not that asshole that I used to be. And hell, I _know_ I was an asshole. I would punch myself if I met him on the street. But…you know how it is, right?” His voice broke. “Family…settling down…” He shook his head. “It _changes you_ , you know? I couldn’t be that guy if I wanted to keep Lisa safe, keep–”

Dean broke himself off. He scrubbed at his eyes. “Helping people, it’s nice, you know? That’s why I liked hunting. Killing some evil sons-a-bitches was great and all, but…I got to help people. I got to _save_ people. And now I just do it in a different way. I keep their cars running, keep ‘em moving, because no car means no job, no money, and I think I know how that feels. That’s how I grew up, and I don’t want _anyone_ to have to go through that when they already know what the flip side is like, yeah?

“So I have to keep Cas’ car going, because he sure as shit doesn’t know squat about it.” Dean looked up at Bobby to find him staring. “What, old man?”

Bobby blinked. “Huh? Oh, nothing. I guess I don’t know you yet, boy. Need to work on that, I guess.”

Dean smiled softly. “I hear a beer is a good way to start that.”

“Yeah, let’s go grab a cold one. C’mon, Dean. I want to hear about that Caddy-ownin’ asshole I hear you nattering on about to that Castiel guy. He sounds like a real douchebag.”

* * *

Dean and Bobby talked for hours, trading stories about asshole clients and beautiful cars, family anecdotes whispered through gulps of whiskey. When Bobby finally retired for the night, Dean was pleasantly buzzed and almost tripped up the stairs in the dark. When he reached his bedroom with no further mishaps, he collapsed on his bed.

The pleasant warmth in the back of his mind died a cold death as soon as he heard “Radar Love” ring out through his bedroom. He stared at the ceiling as the music quieted. When it started again, he groaned. Of course she’d choose that day out of all the ones before to be so damned persistent.

After the music restarted for the fourth time, Dean pulled himself upright. He picked up the phone and sighed. Time to face the firing squad. No blindfold for him.

“Hello?” he asked into the silence at the other end.

“Dean?” He hadn’t heard Lisa’s voice in months; he almost was able to imagine that everything was normal.

“Hey, Lise.”

“Dean? That really is you?”

Dean chuckled tightly. “Yeah, Lise, it’s me. Why’re you calling so late?”

“Oh. Um, I was just wondering.”

After a pause Dean asked, “Wondering what?”

“Why you left.”

Dean almost choked. “Lise…I couldn’t stay. I just couldn’t.”

Lisa sounded puzzled when she replied, “Why not, Dean? Why couldn’t you stay?” The _with me_ went unspoken, but not unheard.

Dean stuttered, “Be-because you wouldn’t stop _looking_ at me! You acted like I was going to _break_ or something, like I was _mental_ , and it almost drove me crazy! That first week I almost fucking found a convenient river and drove in, Lise! You weren’t _helping me_ by being so damn careful. I needed someone to lean on, not someone to treat me like…like I was going nuts!” His voice had risen steadily through his tirade until he was practically yelling into the phone. Dean hoped Bobby was somewhere _else_.

Lisa screamed right back, “You looked like you _were_ , Dean! I honestly thought you _had_ broken. You didn’t talk except when you had to, hell, you barely did anything but go to work in that damn car shop! You paid more attention to fixing your car than you did to me! If I couldn’t find you at night, chances were you had ended up slumped under that damn car, sleeping with grease in your hair and a wrench in your hand! I was worried about you, you damn asshole!”

Dean growled, “Well, then you shouldn’t have called in a fucking shrink to the damn house. I just about _shot_ the man when I walked in.”

Lisa laughed, high and hysterical over the phone. “ _Exactly_! You started carrying a _gun_ , you thought every shadow was trying to hurt you, you almost shot the neighbor’s _dog_ when you woke up one morning because it’d killed a squirrel the night before! You weren’t _my Dean_ anymore!”

Dean hissed, “Well I wasn’t always _your fucking Dean_ , okay? Sure, I might’ve been a bit paranoid–” He ignored the hysterical snort at those words. “–but it was all founded in what I _knew_ , okay? If you’d _talked to me_ like a _normal person_ I probably would have snapped out of it! All I fucking needed were the words, ‘It’s okay, Dean, nothing here’s gonna hurt you anymore,’ and I would _get it_ , okay? I would _understand_ that I’m not _there_ anymore, I’m not his little–” Dean choked on the word.

Lisa’s voice softened over the phone. “Dean, honey, are you alright?”

Dean choked out, “Not really, but I’m doing a hell of a lot better than I _was_.”

Lisa sighed, the sound choked in a way that once would have made him want to reach across state lines and hug her to his chest. “I just…wish none of this had ever happened, Dean. I wish Ben was still here.”

Dean’s chest clenched at that name. “I know. I – I do too. Every damn day.”

Lisa whispered, “I still love you, Dean, baby.”

The phone line went dead before Dean could reply. He honestly didn’t know if he could have. Not anymore.

He fell back onto his bed, eyes once again fixed on the ceiling. He lay there until his eyes finally drifted closed of their own accord, too exhausted to stay awake.

* * *

_Dean drove through the construction site, laugh on his lips and hands loose on the wheel. The Impala seemed to echo his mirth, purring in time._

_Or at least, she purred until she crumpled under the generator’s weight. Dean sat in the driver’s seat, frozen, hearing two screams behind him instead of one. He didn’t want to move, to see who had been hurt – killed – but his eyes moved to the rearview anyway._

_First he saw Ben, already dead, crushed under the crumpled metal and crushed glass that used to be the rearview window._

_Then a tan trenchcoat spattered in blood caught his eye. His eyes met lightning-blue ones, dulling slowly from pain and fading as death came over them._

_And Dean screamed and screamed, because now he’s lost them both, they’re both gone, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save them, he failed he failed he failed…_

Five days since Lisa called. Four since Castiel had left with a new transmission and a small frown and not returned. Four days since the nightmares had come back, and Dean had lost hours of sleep trying to escape them. Three days since he’d first jolted awake to find Bobby in his doorway, eyes hooded with exhaustion and worry, holding two pills and a glass of water. Two days since he first refused them, because the damn things just trapped him in the dreams. One day since Sam called, saying he had something to tell Dean, saying that he was done.

Dean tried to do his job, he really did, but his eyes kept straying to the gate, his ears kept straining to hear the rattling of Cas’ old junker. He wasn’t focused, he knew he wasn’t, and Bobby figured it out too after one too many misheard instructions led to problems in the shop.

After all, it was hard to care about some random jerk’s 1969 GTO Judge (original orange paint job – now scratched slightly – and all) when Cas had been AWOL for four days, when his brain felt like it was full of mush steeped in Jack and cheap beer. Dean couldn’t help but imagine scenarios in his head, nightmares blooming into real life like some rotten flower.

Maybe Cas had lost brake fluid again. Maybe his car was lying in some roadside ditch with his cold body inside it.

Maybe he’d locked the engine up and was stuck out in the ranchlands of South Dakota, with no food or water and no people for miles.

Maybe the old junker’s starter misfired and turned the car into a fireball with Cas inside, burning burning burning.

Maybe he’d run into someone and now his car was twisted and torn and his body was bloody and broken ( _like Ben like Ben like Ben nonono_ ).

Maybe he’d almost run over a werewolf and the monster had destroyed his car before tearing him apart too.

Bobby snapped him out of his horror-filled imagination with a shout for help. Dean jumped to and barely managed to catch the tire that had started rolling all on its own and almost rolled out of the yard into the road. After that, Dean tried his hardest to fill his mind with cars and engines and pistons and axles and everything that he needed to know to fix the car in front of him.

When he finished that one, he found another to fix up. When the clients all left satisfied, if a little wary of the crazy man with the wrench and the wild eyes, Dean started on Bobby’s old car. He worked until sundown, not even stopping for food, because he knew that if he stopped he’d remember again and there was something that he didn’t want to remember so he immersed himself in the guts of the ’71 Camaro and…forgot.

At least until he had no more light to see by, and exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, and he fell asleep under the Camaro, grease covering his face and wrench in hand.

* * *

_The funeral was a quiet affair. Dean held himself stoic and silent. He knew that if he tried to deliver a eulogy, he’d break down, and he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. Sometimes people tried to talk to him - offering condolences or some shit, he was sure - but he ignored them. At one point a persistent voice sounded familiar, like_ family _familiar, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. The voice disappeared and the service began._

_So he sat, still, on the pew of the church Lisa’d attended every Sunday for the past nine years. Every so often a quiet sob from one of the kids – Ben’s friends – behind him echoed through the building. The preacher was nattering on about heaven and good and all sorts of things that Dean had given up on years ago._

_He’d had Ben cremated, and even if he hadn’t the ceremony would’ve been closed-casket. So there was no viewing. As soon as the ceremony was over, Dean turned to leave the church, already stuffy in his rented suit. As he stood, he just barely caught sight of a shaggy head over the rest of the crowd._

_Not quite a hunter’s funeral, but Ben wasn’t a hunter. Either way, Sam had shown up. It shouldn’t have made him as thankful as it had._

The crunching of gravel under the tires of Sam’s Prius pulled Dean from the nightmare. He attempted to sit up, only to whack his head on the Camaro’s driveshaft and groan in pain. 

Gingerly, he pulled himself out from under the car. If Sam was back, that meant he had news.  
He scrabbled for a handhold on the side of the car, trying to pull himself upright on legs stiff from the chill of a South Dakota night. Sam’s extended hand offered him a slightly more dignified way to reach verticality, so he took it.

When he stood on his own two feet, Sam turned to go inside, giving him a meaningful look over his shoulder. Dean sighed; figured he’d want Bobby within earshot so that he only had to give the news once. He followed, dragging his feet.

When Sam saw that he was inside, he began, “So get this. I go out to where, uh, it all went down, right? And I talk to this guy who was supposed to tie the generator in. He talks like it was a ghost, right?”

At his pause, Dean motions impatiently for Sam to go on. “Yeah, yeah, what’s the point?”

Sam scrubs the back of his neck. “Well, y’see, I go through the library, and there was _nothing_ , man. No violent deaths, no weird animal sightings, not even a car crash until the first time a generator went down. So I go back, y’know, talk to the foreman, and get this: the generator dude? Functioning alcoholic up until the second generator fell.”

Dean interrupted, “So you’re saying that a _fucking_ drunk _asshole_ killed Ben? Please tell me he’s locked up, Sammy, please.”

Sam shrugged. “He said he’d go to rehab, has been, so he got off, I guess. I dunno, man, it skeeved me out but it seemed pretty normal to the foreman.”

Bobby cut in. “You look through his background, Sam? See anything funky?”

Sam shook his head. “No, Bobby, I didn’t see anything weirder than an absentee dad and what was probably a drunk mom. Maybe what put him in the bottle in the first place. Who knows.”

Dean waved his hands, voice rising. “Wait, wait, so he got off scot-fucking-free? Not even fucking _jail time_? Goddammit, Sam, that’s nuts!”

Sam shrugged. “Nothing I could do, Dean. Trust me, if I wasn’t wanted in twenty out of fifty states for everything from grave desecration to credit fraud, I would’ve framed him for some bullshit thing and gotten him jail time. Trust me. But, if I got caught as I am, I’d be in the lockup for a while. No point in risking it.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped as he sighed, “Not even for Ben?”

Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder. “We’re sorry, son. But, well, he’s gone, and if you cremated him, then he’s not coming back. Better to let him go and keep living.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

As he turned to leave, Sam cleared his throat. Bobby, as if he knew exactly what Sam was about to ask, began frantically signing “No” in every manner he could. Sam ignored him and asked, 

“Dean? Um, Cicero seemed like a really nice town, and you…you seemed, well, if not pretty happy then content, with Lisa last time I was, uh, there. So, um, why…why did you…”

Dean spun around, eyes hard. “Why did I _leave_ , is that what you’re saying?”

Sam nodded gingerly, realizing he’d definitely hit a soft spot.

Dean continued, “Well, y’see, Sam, it all started after the fucking funeral, yeah? Me and Lisa get home, and she’s cryin’ an’ I’m tryin’ not to cry, tryin’ to stay strong, right? So I go and I work on Baby, ‘cause that always calms me down. An’ I work on her all night ‘cause if I try to sleep I fuckin’ see _his_ face and his fuckin’ _blood_ all over me so I don’t sleep. An’ I do that for, for, for weeks, Sam, fuckin’ _weeks_ I try to stay awake because if I fuckin’ go to sleep he’s there.

“I go to work, yeah, get the dough, but, fuck, my heart’s not in it, I’m asleep while I’m fuckin’ walkin’, an’ when it gets real bad I c’n see Ben just over there, just out of my field of vision, an’ he’s fuckin’ cryin’ ‘cause I fuckin’ _killed_ him, okay? It was me, I know it, I should’a seen the generator wobblin’ and fuckin’ stopped, but no, I kept drivin’ ‘cause I was late gettin’ back home already and I got Ben ice cream even though I said I wouldn’t an’ it was so _late_ , Sam, I didn’t see. I should’a seen it.

“So I’m fuckin’ dead in the water, runnin’ on fumes, what the fuck ever, an’ Lisa was fucking _right_ , Sam, I was fucking _broken_ , okay? So I left, ‘cause I was scarin’ her an’ that was the last thing I wanted to do, was scare Lise, ‘cause I loved her, okay? If you fuckin’ love ‘em you let ‘em go, right? So I…so I fuckin’ let her go because I loved her too much an’ I scared her. I scared her, Sammy.”

Dean’s voice broke and he stared through watery eyes at Sam, who eyed him like he’d just broken something precious, like Sam had just ruined something he’d loved. And Dean hated that look, because dammit, look what love got him, death and fucking loneliness, so he spun around with a final growl and ignored the halfhearted exclamation behind him. He just stormed to his room and locked the door behind him and collapsed on the bed. He lay there, awake, for hours before his exhausted body finally succumbed to the soft lure of unconsciousness. His nightmares were filled with tears and blood-stained leather.

* * *

Dean jerked awake when the familiar clanking rattle of Cas’ old junker neared the house. 

Rushing to make himself somewhat presentable, he almost tripped down the stairs, but managed to make his way to the front door unharmed. When he tugged open Bobby’s front door and saw what waited for him, he spun around and scrabbled for the fucking shotgun. Whatever just stepped out of Cas’ car wasn’t him, wasn’t human. It had wings, black wings, and Dean had no clue how it got in but it seemed familiar for some reason.

Bobby stumbled down the stairs to ask why he was making such a racket, only to be confronted with Dean scrambling for a gun, any gun, as some unknown entity that looked one hell of a lot like Castiel appeared in his living room accompanied by the sound of wings. He pulled a gun from his waistband – always armed, that’s the hunter’s way – and fired. He _knew_ his shot went true, right into the heart, but the being that looked like Castiel just cocked its head and stepped forward. When it touched his head, Bobby crumpled, unable to move a muscle.

Sam followed the gunshot, brandishing his own gun, and succumbed to the same paralysis.

Dean stared at the being, shotgun lax in his grip, and backed away slowly. When he ran into the wall, he pulled up the gun and braced it against his shoulder. The being – who was starting to look more and more like Cas in a snit – sighed and waved its hands. Dean’s gun just…disappeared.

Dean spoke first. “So? You gonna kill me or what?”

The being answered, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean scoffed, “Yeah, hello to you too. And who the fuck are you again?”

“I am Castiel. I do not understand. I have not changed in appearance.”

“Um, the wings are a pretty big change. If you really are Cas.”

“I am. I possess a 1978 Lincoln Continental, Cartier Edition. I constantly found new ways to make it nonfunctional, so that I could bring it here to you and allow you to fix it. In fact, I also accompanied you on your journey here, although I believe that you thought that I was simply a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation.”

Dean waved a hand. “Okay, okay. Say you are Cas, and you, uh, were the hallucination too. What do you want with _me_ , of all people?”

Cas straightened. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean snorted, cutting him off. “Right, and I’m the president. What do you _want_ , Cas, and cut the bullshit.”

Cas insisted, “I _am_ an angel. I was sent from Above by my superiors to keep watch over you and ensure that you did not slip too deeply into despair.”

“Okay, so say you’re telling the honest truth. Do you know _why_ I was so fucking important to the guys upstairs?” Dean growled.

Cas shook his head. “It is not my place to question.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “ _Okay_ then. Whatever. Is there a reason you’re here in all your feathery glory, instead of just rolling in with your car in a mess again?”

“I decided that appearing in this form would lend more weight to the words I am about to say.”

“And what words are those, oh angel?” Dean muttered sarcastically.

Cas replied, “Grief can alter the memory. You did not see the generator wobble. In fact, no one expected that generator to fall, no matter how much you seem determined to pass blame onto yourself. The only man you have to blame is a drunken construction worker who strapped the generator into the harness insufficiently. Believe me, he will be dealt with when his time comes.”

With that, Cas vanished with the sound of wings. Dean didn’t move as Sam and Bobby pulled themselves to their feet.

“What the hell?” Sam asked. Bobby echoed him, hand creeping toward another gun hidden in the coffee table.

Dean didn’t say a word, just walked outside, following a hunch. He found Cas’ old junker, still sitting in Bobby’s drive. Cas was nowhere to be found.

He walked up to the car and noticed a folded piece of paper on the driver’s seat with his name scrawled on it in painfully familiar handwriting. He pulled open the door – unlocked – and picked up the note. He opened it to see two distinctly separate messages, one in a loopy script and one in what was obviously Ben’s handwriting.

He collapsed into the seat and read the note. Then reread it. His eyes misted over.

_Dean Winchester, I leave this note for you to find. It is not a hoax or a scam. I have spoken with your son Above. He is happy for now but wishes to meet you again someday.  
-Castiel_

**Dad, I know you’re real torn up inside about me…gone. It’s weird to say I’m dead, but I am, aren’t I? I know it sounds cheesy, and you hate chick flick moments, but it’s gonna be OK, dad. I’m up here, you’re down there, yeah, but Cas says that it was just my time. He says that now you’ve got a job to do or something and it sounds important. Don’t worry about me being lonely. Cas has been keeping me company. He has a mean poker face. He’s won every game we’ve played once I explained the rules. I think he’s better than you Dad. Cas also said something about you tearing yourself up and Mom getting mad. Don’t blame yourself, Dad. It wasn’t you I promise. I had so much fun, and that ice cream we had was the best thing ever not counting the ice cream up here but that’s kinda an unfair advantage. Mom’s just all torn up like you. Cas says that she blames herself for not picking me up or something, but that’s stupid because Mom had to work and you did too so I guess maybe it was you guys’ bosses fault. Did you meet Uncle Sam and Bobby finally? Cas says Sam’s smarter than Einstein but I doubt that, I think he’s just exaggerating. Cas says he’s got to go down to you now, so I’m gonna seal this up. Love you, Dad. Miss you so much.  
-Ben**

He whispered, “Yeah, bud, I miss you too.” He didn’t move for a very long time, note crumpled in his hand.

* * *

When the sun started setting, Sam pulled Dean out of the old junker, mindful of the piece of paper still clenched in his fist. He didn’t ask, and Dean didn’t offer, so he just dragged him off to bed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Dean got a full night’s sleep.

* * *

That evening, Bobby jumped and cussed up a storm when Castiel appeared in his kitchen. The man – angel? – disappeared just as quickly, ignoring his increasingly inventive expletives. He and Sam hear a thump and a muffled yell from Dean’s room, and figure that that’s where he disappeared to.

Bobby wouldn’t even tell Dean, but he’d been just as awake as ever when Castiel froze him. He knew exactly what the angel was. He figured, as long as the angel didn’t try to hurt him or his, he could stay. After all, Dean needed all the help he could get these days.

* * *

Five minutes after Castiel appeared in the kitchen, Sam sneaked up the stairs to see what the angel had done. He found Dean sleeping more peacefully than he’d ever seen before, with Castiel, expression blank, seemingly standing watch. He let them be.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of _maybe_ writing some more in this 'verse. After all, Castiel never did say what Heaven needed from Dean.
> 
> Comments & kudos are loved and cherished!


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